Dead Man's Hand
by dutchrub
Summary: Spies, gambling, jealousy, romance, and daring escapes-all in fabulous Monte Carlo! Stand-alone mission with Nikita, Michael and Birkhoff set in 2005.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Okay, so apparently I didn't exercise all my _Nikita_ demons like I thought. My brain latched on to one of the moments I off-handedly mentioned at the end of my last fic, "Lies, More Lies, and Assassins," so I had to run with it. I will not be switching between past and present in this fic—it's solely set in 2005, and while not a sequel per se, it's set months after the events in LMLAA, so if you haven't read it, you may want to. I promise less angst, more fun, and vintage Division teamwork. Sorry, no Alex or Owen in this one. I really wish there would be more episodes of Nikita's past missions; I find them so fascinating. I think that's where we'll be going here—the transition between rookie to all-star. Enjoy!

**Dead Man's Hand**

**Chapter One**

"You've been activated." Never a hello or a 'how are you.' Hell, he never even said her name.

The words fell on her ears as they always did, like a hammer on an anvil. Nikita had been living in her own apartment for exactly five months and twelve days—not that she'd been counting. It was a beautiful one bedroom on the third-floor, with a balcony overlooking a quaint street that had a farmer's market on Sunday mornings. She loved waking up those days to sounds of haggling and laughter and the smells of earth and vegetables.

Nikita even had two friends in the building—well, what a normal tenant would call friends. Liz and Maxine knew Nikita to be Claire Smith, a flight attendant, which gave her the perfect excuse to dodge out for days at a time. During her first week in the building, Liz had brought over an apartment-warming cactus; Max had invited her over for chai tea on her balcony. Okay, so Nikita had really only hung out with them twice, but during those two times, she had felt human again, real. It was wonderful to connect with people who weren't androids mopping up blood without so much as a grimace or hunched-back computer geeks holed up in a dank room filled with glowing monitors.

But every time Nikita heard those three loathsome words, a black velvet cord tightened around her ankles, pulling her from innocent apples and spinach down to syringes and .50 caliber bullets.

"What now?" she asked tightly as she was roused from her Saturday afternoon lounge on her sofa.

Michael's voice was much more playful. "I promise you'll like this one."

Despite her spoiled repose, Nikita couldn't resist him when he teased her. "That's what you said about the Charlotte job. I hated the Charlotte job."

"You weren't supposed to go out through the laundry chute," he deadpanned. "You would have liked it otherwise."

"You always say that."

"And yet you never follow instructions."

"I'm beginning to feel like I'm being manipulated," she volleyed back with a small smile. "Well, more than usual."

Michael sighed. "Grab a suitcase and come in. Pack something expensive to wear." He hung up—no goodbyes—and Nikita followed suit.

Packing was easy. The life of a would-be flight attendant afforded a substantial wardrobe with few other worries to stow in her suitcase. All told, it took Nikita ten minutes. On her way out the door, her eyes roved around her apartment, taking in the sun-washed chairs, the grocery-stuffed cabinets, and the staged photos of her with some recruits that made it look like she actually had friends. If she was lucky, she would be able to return to the beautiful lie after she completed the mission.

As she locked her front door, Nikita heard footsteps in the hallway, and the killer instincts ingrained in her during her two years at Division took hold of her. She whirled around, her hands close to her sides, ready to strike at any moment.

"Whoa, Bruce Lee," Max said, tossing up her hands in surrender. "It's just me."

Max was smiling, but Nikita was not. She frowned. "You startled me."

"I was just walking."

"Well, try not to do that anymore," Nikita managed to joke, though she didn't really feel like it. She could have hurt one of the only real things in her life. She'd have to get a better hold on herself in the future.

As she noticed the suitcase, Max tilted her head to the side, her auburn bob brushing against her heavily pierced ears. "Where are you jet-setting to this week?"

"Hong Kong." The fib flowed effortlessly.

Max's lips formed an impressed 'o' and then she nodded approvingly. "Exotic. Must be wonderful to see the world for free."

"It's not really all it's cracked up to be. You don't get to see the touristy stuff when you're on the job, and you don't get a whole lot of time to yourself." Plus, you could always end up at the bottom of a laundry chute along with every hotel guest's filthy sheets, Nikita added to herself.

Her spritely friend shook her head. "You are such a pessimist, Claire. Don't you realize in this scenario you're more likely to end up with the dashing pilot in a bungalow in Tahiti."

Nikita laughed. "You've been reading too many Harlequin romances."

"Whatever. Enjoy the free peanuts, neighbor," Max said cheerily, waving an arm as she walked away to her apartment.

Nikita smiled to herself, actually thankful to Division for once for giving her an opportunity to meet someone who wasn't a loser drug addict or a petty criminal. For one quick moment, she realized with some shock that if Division hadn't interceded in her previously miserable existence, she might not even be around. Not that she was going to send Percy a thank you card. Despite what he had given her, he had still trained her to be an assassin, and that was something which she could never forgive.

Nikita hefted up her suitcase and strolled out to her car. Within an hour's time, she was back in the dark hole of Division's lair. The corridors were so familiar, she could have wandered them in her deepest sleep without ever missing a room. It smelled down here, not dank and wet like a basement, but like a long-sealed closet—dry, stale, and uninviting.

The Operations room thrummed with the electronic pulse of dozens of computers. Thanks to thick planes of glass, only the muffled sounds of sparring matches and speed bags being mercilessly bombarded with fists disturbed the occupants. Michael and Birkhoff waited expectantly in the center of the room while five other agents kept their noses to their monitors as their fingers ground away at keyboards.

Nikita glanced at the center screen in the room where an olive-skinned man in his early 30s stared back at her. He had a small mustache, and his shoulder-length hair was slicked back into a ponytail. One thick eyebrow was slightly raised as if in a challenge. "Who's the creep?" she asked without ceremony.

"Never misses a thing," Michael said proudly, walking up to her with a half-grin.

Birkhoff rolled his eyes. "Come on, of course he's a thug. He's plastered all over Division's monitors. It's not brain surgery."

"Shut up, nerd," Nikita barked and then slapped him with the back of her hand on his shoulder. Birkhoff winced and rubbed the soon-to-be bruise, his face in a deep scowl.

Michael pursed his lips, his eyes lighting with pleasure before returning to a more serious gaze. "This is Giacomo Brusca, a Cosa Nostra underboss in the Realmonte clan, suspected of three bombings of anti-Mafia prosecutors, racketeering, loan sharking, and at least a dozen murders. Edward Starling implicated him as one of his top investors in his diamond smuggling business, which is how we first caught wind of his activities."

"Brusca was in bed with Starling?" she asked. The mention of the Starling name sent a tingle up her spine, though whether it was because of Edward's tyranny toward his wife or because of the two days Nikita had spent trapping him with Michael while posing as an engaged couple, she wasn't sure.

Michael was silent for a moment, absently studying Brusca's photo. At last, he nodded, catching her eye. "His mafiosi provided protection for the ships importing the blood diamonds."

"When did he become our business?" Nikita asked.

"When he started immigrating his crime syndicate to New York. Not to mention, he expanded his smuggling circle to guns, drugs and terrorist threats."

Nikita inhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing as she examined Brusca. "So this is a take down?" she asked, never breaking her stare.

Michael came up behind her. He didn't touch her, but she could feel his heat radiating off of him, warming her back like the summer sun. "We need our best on this," he said.

She turned around and raised an eyebrow. "And I'm one of the best, am I?"

Michael returned her smirk. "A perfect record has its privileges." His face exhibited no small amount of pride as he watched her. "You've completed twenty missions of both counter-intel and elimination. We need both on this mission, and it's time for your reward."

"What, like a gold star or Agent of the Month?" she sassed.

Michael shrugged. "I was thinking more along the lines of a Mediterranean vacation."

Nikita wrinkled her brow and crossed her arms. "Not much of a vacation if I have to work."

"You'll think differently when you know where we're going." Her mentor took a few steps back and nudged Birkhoff in the shoulder.

On the monitor neighboring Brusca's photo, Birkhoff brought up an image of rugged coastline terraced with hundreds of high-rise buildings. An endless fleet of stark white boats dotted the surrounding azure harbor, several multi-million dollar yachts garnering all her attention. "Where is this?" she asked.

Michael pressed his lips together to squash a grin of satisfaction at her dream-like tone. "Monte Carlo."

She blinked, breaking the spell the photo had woven over her. Suddenly, she was back in the belly of Division, that stale smell mixing with the dusty heat of the computers. "So why are we going all the way to Monaco to take down this guy?"

Birkhoff's fingers hammered on some keys as he replaced the panorama of Monte Carlo with an opulent building of Baroque-inspired architecture. "Ready to be Jane Bond?" the computer tech asked, glancing at her over his injured shoulder.

"Brusca will be in town to participate in the European Poker Tour being played right there at the Monte Carlo Casino." Michael pointed at the photo and then faced Nikita. "Your job will be to get close enough to Brusca to get his room key. You'll slip it to me so I can search his room for any intel on the activities of the Realmonte clan. Once I find what we're looking for, you will slip this into Brusca's drink."

Michael produced a small container of clear liquid, and Nikita's eyes locked on it. It looked just like water, but the vial made it inherently more insidious. "What is it?"

"GChC. Odorless, colorless and tasteless, and virtually undetectable during autopsy. It's a toxin Division designed to target the liver. Brusca already has liver disease, so this will just accelerate his condition. In two hours time, he'll be dead, and we'll be gone."

"Sounds straightforward enough," she said, at last breaking her gaze from the vial.

Birkhoff scoffed. "That is if you follow directions, Nikki."

"You want another bruise to match the last one?" she threatened.

"Children, settle down."

The room fell eerily silent as Percy strolled in followed by the immaculate Amanda. He smiled lightly at Nikita as he approached them. "There she is," he said, his hands outstretched toward his pupil, "our rising star. I'm not sure I told you how good of a job you did on Operation Aphrodite. We would have never had the chance to get the intel off of Marks' computer if it weren't for you, Nikita."

She didn't say anything; she couldn't. Seducing a German scientist just to get his trade secret for a chemical compound wasn't really her idea of a good mission. If Michael hadn't stormed into their hotel room at the last second, she was sure Percy would have had no problem forcing her to sleep with Marks.

"I can't emphasize enough how important taking out Brusca is. With him gone, we'll be eradicating a serious threat to our nation, not to mention crippling the terrorists and smugglers who use him for protection."

Despite how she felt about the assassinations, even Nikita had to agree with that. She nodded solemnly along with the others. "When do I leave?"

"Your team leaves tomorrow morning at 6:30."

"Brutal," she said. "I'll have a team?"

Percy smiled. "Of course."

Amanda took a step forward, her quiet power resonating throughout the room. "Michael will be joining you as tactical support." The inquisitor watched the agent very carefully, but Nikita made sure she didn't show any reaction. After their undercover mission in Banff, Amanda had been keeping close tabs on Nikita every time she stepped into Division, like she had a checklist and ticked off boxes for every interaction that occurred, especially with Michael. For all Nikita knew, the woman could have been monitoring her at her apartment.

If Percy felt the shift of power in the room, he didn't acknowledge it. "We will of course be using only the best of our operatives. Unlike their American counterparts, the Sicilian mob is known for its subtlety. Brusca keeps out of the Italian limelight by keeping all his secrets ferreted away in tightly-encrypted technology guarded by his best soldiers. Not a bad idea really," he mused, looking off into empty space. "But it's exactly why Birkhoff will be joining you on your mission."

"Birkhoff's coming too?" Nikita asked, honestly aghast. "I didn't know nerds knew how to do field work."

"Just wait until you see me in action, babe," the computer guru replied hotly. "Then you'll be the one who has to sit in Amanda's office for hours talking about your feelings instead of Michael."

Nikita glanced over to Michael whose jaw tightened like a screw. His brow furrowed, but his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the back of Birkhoff's head. She wasn't sure what the geek had meant by that, but obviously it had struck a chord with her coworker.

Amanda simpered. "Perhaps you should see me too before you leave, Seymour. We are overdue for a visit." Hearing Birkhoff's first name was like an icy dagger in the heart, and even the other agents in Operations momentarily stopped typing. Nikita actually thought she saw Birkhoff shiver.

"No, I'm good," he managed at last as he returned to the safety of his computers. Amanda's only response was a slow nod of muted pleasure.

Percy gave a half-smile. "Excellent. Oh, and I should mention that Roan will be on standby should the mission get out of hand. Not that that will happen."

Michael nodded, glad for the shift in conversation. "Of course not, sir."

"Exactly. This job has to be done cleanly and discreetly. We don't need the Cosa Nostra catching wind of our operations. That would be… unwelcome." Percy's face was stern, his mouth fixed in its usual straight line. Each member of the team knew the penalty for failure, but their boss never passed up a chance to remind them of it.

Before Percy turned to leave, he offered them all a sly grin. "And remember, this is a mission, but you can also consider it a bit of a vacation. After the job is done, feel free to stay an extra day on Division's dime. Consider it a thank you for all your hard work." He waved goodbye with two fingers, signaling for Amanda to follow.

Without the parents lording over them, the team felt free to breathe again and the room felt substantially more inhabitable. Nikita found her good humor again and turned to Michael. "Some reward. We've got to spend it with the geek squad."

Birkhoff let out a long, controlled sigh. "That's because nobody trusts you two alone anymore."

"Get over yourself, Birkhoff. It was one kiss and it was for our cover. You people really need other hobbies," Nikita growled, though she only half meant what she said. When she and Michael had returned from Banff months ago, they were floored to find just how many operatives had heard about their kiss on the dance floor—almost like it was front page gossip on a tabloid magazine. Nikita had long since convinced herself that anything she had felt on that trip had been a byproduct of their engagement cover, and she assumed Michael had as well. Why did nobody else in Division believe it too?

"That's not what it looked like from our vantage point," he taunted.

Nikita stooped over so her mouth was level with his ear. "One more word, and I'll pour maple syrup on all your keyboards. Then how will you watch the female recruits in their Bikram yoga classes?"

His eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"I think you know by now I don't make idle threats." Nikita looked over at Michael and winked; she could tell he was loving every minute of Birkhoff's torture. She patted the nerd on his wounded shoulder and watched him cringe. "You know, I think this is going to be a fun mission after all."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Ah, those halcyon days—welcome to the lighter side of Division. :)

**Chapter Two**

The flight to France had been a nightmare. It was official: Birkhoff could ruin anything, even a first class trans-Atlantic trip. His incessant yammering about C++ code, "graphic novels not comic books!" and MMORPGs was enough to give Nikita an itchy trigger finger. Thank God she couldn't bring a weapon on the plane.

Michael, who lounged in the neighboring seat, seemed oddly complacent. Normally, he couldn't tolerate Birkhoff's nerd babble for more than four minutes—let alone four hours—but today he wasn't bothered by it. After all, their short fuses with each other were the reason Nikita had chosen the aisle seat across from Birkhoff—just so Michael wouldn't have to sit directly next to his own personal human sandpaper.

At one point, Nikita grabbed Michael's attention and mimicked shooting herself in the head. It was only because Michael laughed that she saw them: two high-quality ear plugs. "Bastard," she said, her eyebrows pinching together in disbelief.

He pointed to his ears and mouthed, "I can't hear you."

Even her deep scowl couldn't conceal the smile underneath. "You're dead," she mouthed in return.

Michael responded only by settling deeper into his seat and reclining the back as far as it went, his eyes fluttering closed dramatically.

Landing in Nice couldn't have been more welcome. As the plane's wheels skidded across the tarmac, Nikita sat on the lip of her seat, her eyes searching out the window over Michael's shoulder. She could almost taste the salt of free air, and yet she knew she wasn't so lucky. They still had the agonizing half hour ride to Monaco with which to contend.

"A taxi? That's all Percy could pony up for?" Nikita complained as they exited the terminal. "I mean we flew first class, and we'll be staying in exclusive suites, yet we're stuck with a taxi."

Michael shrugged. "We've got to save some money somewhere."

She looked to Birkhoff for a comrade, but he was still angry at his peers' insolence toward him so instead he continued pouting, proof positive that underneath all his egotistical bravado there was a tender vulnerability. Nikita nudged him as they climbed into their conveyance. "Buck up, nerd. We're on vacation in Monte Carlo. In a taxi." His only response was a continued glower; Michael's was a frustrated sigh.

The car wended its way through pale mountainous terrain speckled with evergreens, fruit trees and shrubs. To the right, the cliffs tumbled spectacularly down toward the aqua blue Mediterranean Sea. The colorful flags of sailboats snapped stiffly in the sea breezes, and the setting fall sun glinted off their bows. The smell of warm sand and figs permeated the humid air and clung to their clothes like perfume. Nikita found herself smiling, though she didn't remember initiating it. If it weren't for their mission, this place might truly be paradise.

After descending a steep, winding road of seemingly endless length, the team entered Monte Carlo proper. The roads were narrow and clogged with stubby cars and scantily-dressed pedestrians enjoying the remains of the day. Horns honked so often, they almost drowned out the squawking of the gulls hungry for their dinner. Multitudes of hotels, apartments and luxury condos soared above the trio and sufficiently blocked out much of the view to the sea from street-level.

It wasn't until they pulled in front of the Hôtel de Paris that any of them spoke. Even then, "whoa" was all Nikita could manage.

"Kind of puts our digs back home to shame," Birkhoff added, the first words he'd uttered since arriving in Europe. Nikita nodded absent-mindedly.

A sinking sun bathed the building in a citrusy glow, a heavenly spotlight on the crown jewel of Monte Carlo. The hotel looked more like a palace than anything else, sprawling to the left and right of the Division team. Palms huddled against its majestic beige exterior like star-struck fans, and figureheads of mermaids emerging from sea spray graced the high walls. Nikita was honestly embarrassed to get out of a cab in front of this masterpiece.

Michael, however, was all business. He paid the driver and walked into the opulent lobby seemingly unfazed. Nikita was almost in more awe of his apathy than the crystal chandelier suspended over the tile floor. "Sometimes I worry about him," she commented to Birkhoff as she grabbed her luggage from the trunk.

"Guess it takes a lot more than architecture to impress Michael. Can't say I blame him though. I'll hold back judgment of this place until I try out its internet connection."

"Men," she muttered as she rolled her eyes.

After checking in, they found their way to their rooms on the third floor. Even the hallways were elegant with their plush carpeting and warm colors. Nikita approached her door as the two men drew up alongside their neighboring suite. She offered Michael a wicked grin as she slipped her card key in the door. "Sometimes it really pays to be a woman. Looks like you'll be needing those ear plugs stapled to your ears."

Birkhoff's glower was unmatched in depth or breadth. "It's not like I asked to come along and ruin your little love nest."

"Aw, I think he's feeling left out. Don't worry, nerd, we're glad to have you along," Nikita said with a warm smile. She resisted the urge to pinch his adorably unshaven cheek or ruffle his unkempt hair. "Michael's relieved to have a new roommate."

"I hope your room has bed bugs," Michael retorted.

"No need to be such a sore loser, Michael," she said as she eased into her own room, her face framed teasingly by the door. "If you need a break, neighbor, feel free to knock." In a flash, she was gone, leaving the two men to each other's company.

Birkhoff pointed a finger at Michael's chest threateningly. "I'll have you know when we get back to Division, I'll be reporting the lack of respect I'm getting here. Some thanks I get for creating Division's very own network Fortress of Solitude," he grumbled as he entered their suite. "I should be on the cover of _PC World_, not condescending to share a room with a tech neophyte."

Michael put a hand to his forehead and began to rub, anticipating a major headache within an hour. "Put a cork in it, Birkhoff." The door to the room slammed shut, the exclamation point on Michael's frustration.

* * *

To say Nikita's suite was gorgeous would have been a serious understatement. While this hotel lacked the warmth and hominess of the room she recalled so vividly in Banff, it made up for it in sheer elegance. Every piece of furniture was mahogany, and the deep hues of the wood stood out against the rich blues and eggshell of the walls and carpet. The comforter had a delightful pastoral toile pattern more suited for royalty to sleep on than an assassin. A small wrought iron balcony offered an unimpeded view of the grand Casino de Monte Carlo, perfect for discreet surveillance.

Somewhere on the floor above her, Giacomo Brusca would be donning his suit for his night out at that casino.

Luckily for Nikita, Division wasn't demanding Brusca's head for another two nights, a merciful allowance for a jet-lagged soul like hers. Until that very moment, she hadn't realized exactly how bone-weary she really was. She'd been up since three o'clock New York time, and for obvious reasons, she had hardly been able to sleep at all on the plane. Once she settled in, she would reconvene with her team, talk a little shop, and then sink into her king-sized bed for a night of uninterrupted, unadulterated slumber.

Nikita barely had time to hang up her gowns when she heard a knock at her door. She wasn't all that surprised to find Michael on the other end of the peephole. "Tired of Birkhoff already?" she asked as she opened the door.

The agent breezed in, his eyes roving around the suite. "Actually, he's lost in his own hacker world already. Hasn't said much really."

"Then why are you here?" Nikita inquired and realized it probably sounded ruder than she had intended.

Michael took a seat at the desk that faced toward the window. He didn't answer her.

"Okay," Nikita drawled, plopping down at the end of her bed and idly kicking one leg against it. "Or you could just come in here to not talk to me too."

He sighed reluctantly, something she wasn't used to him doing. "Michael, what's wrong?" she asked with a hint of worry.

"I don't want to share a bed with Birkhoff."

It took every ounce of her etiquette education not to burst out laughing, but even with Amanda's rigorous training, Nikita couldn't suppress her smirk. "Well, I hope you don't think you're staying here."

His eyes implored hers. "Give me a break. You know that ego-maniac won't sleep on the floor or the chaise."

"And apparently neither will this ego-maniac," she said, thumbing at Michael. He frowned.

"It wouldn't be a big deal if I stayed with you." Was that the trace of an impish grin she saw? Was he actually flaunting Banff back at her? That rotten tease.

"If it's not a big deal, then sharing a bed with Birkhoff should be no problem." Obviously he hadn't expected such a clever response; Michael narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "Come on," she continued, "you're always saying we do these missions for the good of our country. Consider it your debt to society."

Michael stood up from the desk and paced around the room, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "You know how he gets under my skin," he complained.

And you know how you get under mine, she wanted to add but wisely didn't. Instead, she replied softly: "Michael, it's not a good idea." The implications hung in the room like the seascape prints on the walls.

He stopped pacing and nodded once. "I know."

Nikita quirked an eyebrow. "So I'll see you in an hour for the once over on the mission details?"

Michael shrugged but returned the same raised eyebrow. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

She couldn't resist: "Yes, I do. Spooning Birkhoff in your room."

His knuckles cracked as he balled his fist, and he took a threatening step closer. She might have been intimidated if it weren't for the slight upturn at the corner of his lips. "That is insubordination, Nikita. Also, it's just cruel."

"I think you'll get over it," she teased as she showed him to the door.

Michael left without looking back, which was an awfully good thing considering Nikita could no longer hide how the lighter side of her stoic handler had charmed her. She leaned her back against the door, her head resting against the cool wood. Her cheeks felt warm and there was no way to smother her stupid, delighted smiles. Honestly, the two most insufferable men on the planet, and she would have to spend days with them. She was beginning to love this mission more by the minute.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Nikita woke to the sounds of housekeeping knocking at her door. "Come back later," she called groggily, her face still half buried in her feather pillow.

Her eyes were bleary from a long sleep, and she reached blindly for her phone. Just after eleven, damn. She'd been more exhausted than she thought. After strategizing with the boys until just before midnight, Nikita had practically stumbled into bed and apparently hadn't moved since. Her limbs were stiff, like the Tin Man craving oil.

Slowly, she eased her heavy body out of bed and slipped on her satin robe, feeling a little more human and a little less tin with each movement. She ran a hand once over her hair and realized that the boys hadn't gotten her up. They were either still sleeping or planning something without her—and she hated when others made plans for her. Nikita grabbed a glass of water and ambled out the door in her bare feet, the ties of her robe tickling the sides of her naked legs.

Her knock on her neighbors' door was answered by Birkhoff's garbled voice. "I thought you people spoke English. I told you to—"

The door jerked open, revealing a very disheveled Birkhoff. His hair was scattered like straw, and his glasses sat askew on the bridge of his nose. Not surprisingly, after the long flight they'd had, Birkhoff's usual five o'clock shadow looked more like a ten o'clock, and a toothbrush protruded between foamy lips. He wore a rumpled "I read your email" ironic t-shirt and a pair of striped boxers. At the sight of Nikita, he crinkled his forehead and gave her a disgruntled wave into the room.

Michael was still sleeping with his bare back to her on the bed, huddled at the edge like a ship teetering on the lip of the world in the old sailor maps. There was an ocean of space between his body and the wrinkled remnants of his bedmate.

Nikita turned back to the tech whiz and cocked an eyebrow. "Aw, the picture of domesticity. Did you order breakfast in bed too?"

"Witty," Birkhoff sneered through a mouthful of toothpaste.

She circled the bed, dragging a spare chair with her. Positioning it directly across from Michael's eye line, Nikita crossed her legs and leaned back against the cushion. "Good morning, sunshine," she sang in a soft lilt.

Michael opened his eyes and sat up with a start. "Where's Birkhoff?"

"Washing away last night's transgressions."

He let out a grunt as he wiped a hand over his face. Nikita smiled—the pillow had mussed his hair just enough to make him look like a little boy. She wanted to run her hand through it.

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you." It was more of a statement really.

"Not on your life," Nikita said through a laugh. She raised one perfect leg and poked his hip with her naked foot. "Now move it. I'm ravenous."

Michael got out of bed and dressed in his standard suit pants and button-up shirt. Honestly, Nikita was a little sad to see such a perfect figure disappear; it was like putting a robe on the statue of _David_. Not that she would ever tell Michael that—his ego hardly needed another stroke. Instead, she politely cleared her throat and said, "So who's up for family brunch?"

Michael fidgeted with the buttons at his wrists and said, "We'll order in. We don't want to attract attention."

"Dad never lets us have any fun," Nikita complained as Michael placed an order with room service.

Emerging from the bathroom with considerably tamer hair and legs now sheltered in a pair of well-loved sweatpants, Birkhoff placed his glasses on his nightstand and then rolled his eyes. Nikita didn't expect him to put up much of a fight; the nerd never liked to be far from the gentle purr of his gadgets.

Even after hanging up the phone, Michael conveniently ignored her barbs and refocused his team. "So we're all clear on the objectives today? Nikita, you'll be casing the casino, getting an idea of the movements of Brusca's guards and scouting the mark. Your primary objective is to make first contact. Birkhoff and I will be surveying the footage to assess vantage points, risks, and anomalies."

Nikita thought about stifling the yawn she felt building in her chest, but instead she let it flow full force—it was better to watch the annoyance flicker across Michael's face. Sometimes it was just so easy.

"Nikita, be serious here," he scolded.

She sat forward on her chair, her elbows resting on her knees. "I am. I just want to know why I'm the only one getting my hands dirty today."

Birkhoff took a seat on his side of the bed and trained his gaze on Nikita in a challenge. "You act like you're the only one doing any of the work around here. Fact is, this whole mission would be fruitless without my tech savvy."

She unleashed another yawn, this one targeting Birkhoff like a bullet. He sighed in response. Two for two, she congratulated herself.

At last, Michael, the eternal voice of reason, interceded. "We all have a job to do, and if we don't want a cancellation stamp on each of our files, we follow the mission instructions just as Percy outlined."

The effect was sobering; there was no arguing with his words. For the next hour it was logistics and lunch with little bickering. Actually, when they focused on the mission—and only the mission—the three of them worked exceptionally well together. Each mind had a focus and a task that picked up on something the other ones couldn't; theirs was truly a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps Percy's decision to send them together had been wiser than Nikita thought.

As time wound into the early afternoon, golden rays of sunlight pierced the windows and warmed their bodies like a heat lamp. Nikita's pulse quickened instinctively. Anticipation permeated her skin, infusing her with the first delicious samples of adrenalin. She would meet the target today, and he would meet his future reaper. Nikita thought of the little vial waiting eagerly in one of Michael's bags, the label-less glass filled with a liquid death.

She felt the distinctive thump-thump of her heart, but she couldn't tell if it was excitement or nerves anymore. On more and more missions, the line between the two was blurring. Maybe she was growing up. Or maybe she was growing apathetic. It terrified her.

Thump-thump.

Nikita glanced at the clock. She had to get ready for her date with Brusca's destiny. She stood up suddenly from the bed and inhaled quickly. "Seriously? Neither of you is going to accompany me to the casino?" she blurted.

Michael gave her his best 'we've been over this' stare. "It's better that we aren't seen together, Nikita."

His stern look helped her compose herself. She crossed her arms. "No one is going to believe a girl like me would go to the casino by herself. Brusca will be suspicious."

"I think you'll be fine," he added, unconcerned.

She turned her demanding eyes on her other ally. "Birkhoff?"

"No way, Nikki," he said, raising both palms. "I'm a strictly a behind-the-scenes guy."

"Come on. I think you'd look hot all cleaned up."

His ego snapped at the bait. "Really?"

Michael shot up from seat and quickly walked between the two. "No. No. Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he said, pointing one rigid finger at the femme fatale.

"Michael, I'm just stating an opinion."

His eyes scrutinized her. "No, you're trying to flatter the dope into doing your bidding. It's not going to work."

She raised an eyebrow. "It might if you gave me some more time."

"Uh, excuse me, IQ of 132 here," Birkhoff interjected.

"Fine," Nikita huffed. "I'll be in my room getting ready to do both of your jobs for you." Halfway out the door she added, "And for the record, nerd, you would look hot in a suit."

While Nikita's departure Birkhoff with a satisfied smile, it left Michael with two very tightly crossed arms.

* * *

Nikita surveyed herself in the mirror. Everything was to Amanda's seduction specifications: long, loose tresses; perfectly painted lips; dabs of perfume behind the ears and at the wrists; short, curves-hugging dress; and silken skin. In order for her to complete the mission, Nikita had to get close enough to the rigorously-protected Brusca to poison his drink. With a mafioso, that would be no easy task. She added one extra coat of mascara as a precaution.

One last examination. She was sex in three-inch heels.

But as her dark eyes stared back at her, Nikita didn't feel attractive—she felt like a sham. Everything she was doing was an artifice. If Amanda were here, she would pat Nikita on the hand and tell her this was no different than a restorer touching up the _Mona Lisa_; everything would be fine, and her family would be waiting for her when she came back.

Nikita yearned for Michael or Birkhoff to accompany her to the casino today. It wasn't that she doubted her abilities to achieve her objectives—Division had programmed her to do these sorts of things with robotic precision. Truthfully, whatever else they were to her, Nikita cared about those two men. Having them around made her life as an assassin bearable for a few fleeting moments; they reminded her of her humanity. She guessed in that respect, maybe Amanda was right: they were her family, or at least some twisted rendition of it.

Not that she considered Michael her dad—no, those feelings were a lot more complex than that if Banff was any indicator. And while she could pick on Birkhoff mercilessly, he was more than just a brother-figure—after all, most sisters didn't call their brothers "hot".

She pressed her lips together one last time to even out her lipstick.

The rap at the door came right on cue.

"Perfect timing," she said to Michael without preamble. "I can't get the zipper up all the way."

Brushing her hair out of the track of the silver teeth, she presented her back to him and waited. There was an excruciating moment of hesitation. The last time his fingers had been on her zipper, they'd been pulling it down, not up.

This time Michael made sure his skin did not touch hers; the only thing Nikita felt against her skin was cool metal. She waited, not sure if she should expect something more. But nothing more came.

Nikita was glad Michael couldn't see her face—it gave her time to conceal her anxious expression. She turned to face him and found his features inscrutable. "You look lovely," he said with perfect evenness.

"You could be escorting this lovely lady to the casino you know," she volleyed back effortlessly.

"Amanda said I should stay at the hotel."

Nikita paused, not sure what to make of that statement. Was this something Amanda and he had talked about in their private meetings that Birkhoff had mentioned? What did they talk about after all?

Nikita added carefully, "I think you'd be more useful on site. You've always been a hands-on kind of guy, Michael. You don't watch things happen on a computer; you make things happen in real-time."

"So that's your assessment of me?"

"Yeah, it is." She felt the need to cross her arms.

Michael titled his face to the side slightly, studying her from the corners of his eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Is this your convoluted way of asking me to be your date?"

Nikita acted offended but she was more surprised than anything. "In your dreams. Just an observation."

"Because it sounded like you were asking me out."

She popped her earpiece in and gathered her handbag. "Sorry, but my dance card's already filled, Casanova," she replied over her shoulder. "You should have taken me up on my offer earlier. Now I've got a date with Lady Luck."

Nikita held the door for Michael and then walked down the hallway without looking back, leaving him with the unforgettable image of a proud vixen on the prowl.

She knew he was watching. He'd watch her until she gave him a reason not to. In that moment, she would make him sorry that he had turned down her offer. Who said Amanda's lessons were only for targets? As the elevator door slid open, Nikita glanced at him, flashing a coy smile as she stepped out of sight. For once, an emotion found its way to Michael's face. Regret.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** FYI, I've never been to Monaco, but all references are taken directly from research I did on the websites of Monte Carlo's most famous places. You're welcome to see the elegance of the buildings for yourself if my descriptions don't quite capture the majesty. Monaco is officially now on my list of places I wish I had the money to visit but don't because I write fanfics instead of novels. :) Enjoy!

**Chapter Four**

The Casino de Monte Carlo was clearly the playground of the super-rich. As Nikita entered the cavernous atrium, huge marble columns, intricate frescos, and lavish gold leaf embellishments overwhelmed her. Glamorous men and women breezed around her on their way to their next conquest while exotic libations flowed freely into glasses of all shapes, loosening the normally ironclad grips the affluent patrons had on their wallets.

Nearby, slot machines chirruped and dinged, content to rob customers of hundreds of euros while spilling from their guts only a paltry treasure; no one seemed to mind the ruse—they were winners after all. And on the other side of the atrium, the clack of the roulette ball stuttered to a stop on the wheel, followed by a chorus of groans and a few mournful claps.

Nikita took a deep breath and plunged into the heart of the space. "Can you guys see me?" she asked, her finger pressed to her ear.

Birkhoff's voice came through clearly from the other end. "I've hacked into the security feed. We're live. Why don't you give us a little wave, Nikki?"

"I've got a hand gesture for you, but it'll probably get me thrown out of a classy establishment like this."

"That's cold," the tech geek said.

"Any sign of Brusca?"

"Negatory. Just brought the feed up. I'll let you know in a few. Now go have a drink; see if you get lucky." Nikita thought she heard Michael clear his throat in the background. She smiled.

Following Birkhoff's advice, she stopped by one of the bars and ordered a martini, feeling more than a little like a James Bond cliché. The first sip was strong, that familiar burn spreading across her chest and finally heating her cheeks. It made a wonderful cover, but it was best to pace herself. Confronting Brusca, she would need all her wits.

Nikita propped one elbow up against the countered and surveyed the space as she waited for her team to radio back Brusca's whereabouts. It only took three minutes for the first fish to bite.

He was young, maybe early 30s, with light blond hair and murky blue eyes. His face still radiated that high school boy look—clean-shaven and soft, with a wide but proud nose—but he looked at her with the confidence of an experienced paramour. He wore a beige suit with a burnt orange shirt underneath, giving Nikita the impression that once his afternoon at the casino ended, he'd be strolling down the beach barefoot. "Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said in an inviting French accent.

"Hello," Nikita replied distantly, hiding behind another sip of her drink. It was best to avoid getting entangled in aimless conversation when she'd just have to find an excuse to get out of it once Birkhoff gave her the next destination.

The man continued undeterred, a mischievous grin lighting his face. "American, yes?" She nodded once. "Where's your date?"

"How do you know I have one?"

He laughed, a pleasant departure from the cacophony of casino noises that assaulted her ears. "No woman like you would come to the casino by herself."

"Is that so?" Nikita added with no small amount of sarcasm. She leaned a little closer to make sure Michael could hear the stranger. What she wouldn't give to see his face right then. "And what exactly is a woman like me?"

The stranger joined her alongside the bar, his arm paralleling hers on the counter. His eyes scoured her face. "Flawless, restless. I sense a bit of a thrill-seeker in you."

"And what are you basing the assessment on, your French charm?"

"No, those parlor tricks are for amateurs. That would be a grievous mistake with a woman of your caliber. I'm basing it on that predatory look in your eye, like a lioness on the hunt."

She tipped her martini glass forward and clinked it off the tumbler he held in his hand. "Fair enough," she said. "My horrible bore of a date is in the slots room. You're right, I like a little more adventure than staring at a screen, idly pushing buttons." Nikita ventured a glance at a security camera.

"Hey," Birkhoff barked in her ear, "it's a lot more than pushing buttons."

Nikita swept a hand along a thick lock of hair, ensuring that her earpiece was well-hidden, and returned her attention to the man next to her.

"And what sort of adventure do you crave?" The stranger's tone made it clear—it wasn't meant to be sleazy; it was meant to be daring.

She smiled, her eyes drifting toward the table games room. "Roulette, black jack, poker. A game's got to have drama for it to be worth playing."

"A lady after my own heart." He returned her smile and took a swig of the dark liquid in his glass. He finished the last of it and pushed it aside, now propping both arms behind him. "My name is Alain."

"Nikita."

He didn't kiss her hand, and she didn't shake his. In fact, they didn't even look at each other; their eyes roved around the grandiose room that engulfed them. They just leaned on the bar in companionable silence. "So what now, Alain?" she asked finally.

"I don't know. To tell you the truth, I've never met a woman like you."

"You got that right," Birkhoff quipped in her ear, surprising her. Nikita had forgotten about the peanut gallery. Then she remembered they had yet to give her the vital intel she needed to complete the day's objective, and she couldn't even harass them for it.

"I thought you had me all figured out," she protested.

"Hardly. I was mostly talking out of my ass."

She laughed, more startled by Alain's honesty than the voices in her ear she'd been neglecting. But as always, there was no escaping them—no escaping Michael. His cool, gravelly voice tickled her skin. "La salle Europe, gaming hall down the east wing. Brusca's playing in the preliminary round of the tournament."

Nikita placed her half-empty glass on the bar and stood up, clutching her handbag against her hip and taking a few steps away. "Well, you did get one thing right," she said to the stranger over her shoulder. "I'm in this for the thrill. Pleasure meeting you, Alain." With no other explanation and without waiting for his response, Nikita disappeared into the wings of the casino.

Alain had been an entertaining diversion to be sure, but if she wanted that promised day of vacation, she had to complete the mission first. She radioed back to Michael and Birkhoff to let them know she was on her way.

With a small smile, Nikita remembered Michael's gruff tone as he gave her Brusca's location. There had been something tight in it, something held back. Nikita had spent enough time with Amanda to have been trained to detect the sound of a man's displeasure. Michael was obviously jealous, but then again, she would be too if she had to stay in a hotel room with only Birkhoff for company.

She followed the ornate halls until she reached a little sign that read "La salle Europe," not that she needed help identifying the place. The room looked more like an opera house than a gambling mecca, and it was the definition of lavish. White onyx columns bolstered the intricate carvings that encircled the glass ceiling while ten foot paintings of seascapes and mountains and even angels ringed the walls. Eight magnificent Bohemian crystal chandeliers scattered light across the gilded trim and ladies' sequined gowns. The scents of expensive cologne and cigars infused the air, a fragrant reminder that Nikita was in the company of some very powerful high-rollers.

Twelve tables were scattered about the floor, each one seating five men and a dealer. The games were evidently already underway, and nearby, curious bystanders watched with bated breath as one particular player went all in at the table closet to Nikita. The rival player hesitated, eyes flicking between his opponent and his cards, before he decided to call. It was a clear mistake—he lost what Nikita estimated to be $2000 in chips. The crowd released a gasp in unison and then followed it up with chaste applause.

Max and Liz would have really liked a postcard from here, particularly Liz, who liked to brag she was an expert at reading tells. But Hong Kong was a far cry from Monaco, and reluctantly Nikita shoved aside the thoughts of her friends when she remembered she couldn't afford such mundane communications in her real line of work.

"Three tables back," Birkhoff directed.

Nikita eased her way through the throngs of onlookers, careful not to draw any unneeded attention to herself, especially not at this stage of the game. She found Brusca where Birkhoff had indicated, hunched over his cards, his profile visible to her. He had cut off his ponytail so that now his hair rubbed at the base of his neck in black waves. The faint shadow of a newly cultivated mustache had taken up residence above his thick lips. Brusca might have been attractive if it weren't for his beady, close-set eyes, trained carefully on his opponents. He did not take notice of Nikita.

She surveyed the surrounding crowd and noticed several men who were obviously bodyguards, but with so many rich and powerful men sharing the tables, it was hard to tell who was guarding whom. With any luck, she'd find out in the near future without having to make too big of a fuss.

"Now this is some drama," said a cool, quiet voice behind her.

"Oh, come on," Michael complained loudly in her ear. It was easy enough to figure out who had joined her just from Michael's tone.

"Alain," Nikita replied with equal cool despite her surprise.

He bullied his way through a young couple nearby so he could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her. "I followed you," he said without prompt.

"I see that. Why?" She hadn't turned to look at him yet, and she could tell from her periphery that neither had he looked at her. It was sort of a strange game they had going on themselves—who would call the other's bluff first?

"Perhaps I wanted a little thrill of my own."

"I hope you find it," she offered elusively. "I thought my disappearing act might have been a hint."

"I thought so too. Apparently not. You know, I can't tell if you're happy to see me again or not."

Nikita raised an eyebrow and finally met Alain's gaze. His blue eyes flicked back and forth over her face for a read he simply couldn't get. "Isn't that the point of a poker face?" she responded. He smiled, revealing white, even teeth.

"Get rid of him, Nikita," Michael urged.

Duh, she thought. Every interaction with this man kept her from learning key information about Brusca. And then, of course, there were her two coworkers listening keenly to every word on the other end of the radio, a surreal experience during the intimate act of courting—not much different than a protective father waiting with his ear pressed against the front door as the boyfriend said goodnight to his daughter. "What do you want, Alain?" Nikita inquired.

Alain appeared surprised. "An adventure and a partner."

Just then, Brusca cleared his throat in triumph as he won the pot, much to the chagrin of the very fat septuagenarian seated perpendicular to him. Everyone joined in on a polite round of applause as he simpered at his fans, his eyes falling on Nikita at last. Their dark chocolate depths locked onto her lean figure clad in vibrant aqua to set her apart from the crowd. Nikita made sure to offer her most dazzling smile as a reward while she finished clapping.

"Looks like we have first contact," Birkhoff acknowledged.

While the dealer took a short break to gather all the cards and shuffle, Brusca turned around to whisper to a dark-haired man with a gold hoop earring. At least they had one confirmed mafioso in the sea of possible hostiles.

"Nikita," Alain said when she didn't respond, "what do you say?"

Damnit, every mission these days had a complication of some type. Under very different circumstances, Nikita might have given the guy a shot. She had to give Alain some credit—a lot of guys had asked her out, but none had asked in such a bizarrely charming and persistent way. Strangely enough, she liked him.

Still, if Brusca's hungry stare had been any indication, in the near future Nikita would be getting her 'offer she couldn't refuse.' Man, she wanted to make that pun for Birkhoff right now; her nerd loved a good pun. She'd have to try and remember it for when she was out of earshot.

With a grim smile, she caught Alain's gaze. "Sounds like fun. I hope you find your partner."

"Ouch, Nikki, that was cold," Birkhoff commented.

Alain, however, laughed. "You're really going to make me work for it, aren't you, Nikita? I'll have you know, I'm never this desperate. Tell you what, I'm going to drink some more liquid courage, as you Americans call it. I'll come up with a more clever approach, and I'll be back." He offered her a polite nod and then vanished into the well-dressed assembly.

"This guy is like a cockroach," Michael said sourly. Then suddenly, there was a faint whistle, like the connection went dead.

Nikita rubbed her ear, slyly adjusting her earpiece, but the static didn't change and she had to turn it off. Hopefully, the boys still had the video feed up. For the time being, she would have to gather as much intel as she could until either Alain returned or Brusca approached her. Any way she sliced it, Nikita realized she'd probably need a vacation after this vacation.

* * *

"What the hell, man? Why'd you cut off the microphone?" Birkhoff spat as he reeled back in his desk chair, hands aloft in shock. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard before Michael closed the laptop on the tech's fingers.

"Get dressed. We're going in," the agent commanded.

Birkhoff swiveled in his seat, staring up at Michael with two very raised eyebrows. "Are you deranged? I don't do undercover work," he emphasized slowly.

"Move it, Birkhoff."

"Nikki can take care of herself. In five more minutes, Brusca will be putty in her hands. This is excessive force."

"If you don't get out of that chair and into this suit in two minutes, I will show you excessive force."

Birkhoff heaved a mighty sigh as he hefted himself up and snatched the proffered attire from his coworker. "Look," he continued, changing into the new shirt, "if you want to go all alpha male on that French baguette, that's fine, but I don't see why I've got to go."

Michael straightened his tie in the mirror and ran a hand over his lapel, ignoring the sight of Birkhoff hopping into his suit pants. He raised one eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twisting up slightly. "Never know when I'll need a human shield."

"Classy, Michael," Birkhoff deadpanned, "very classy."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Bit of a longer chapter here. Sorry for the lapse in updates. Got a little tied up this weekend plus I had to work out some details for later chapters, so I got a little stumped, truthfully. Hope this makes up for it! PS – JUST A FEW DAYS UNTIL NEW NIKITA!

**Chapter Five**

The man with the ponytail and the earring loomed in front of Nikita, his arms firmly crossed. He had knuckles like ham hocks covered in thick black hair. His voice was gruff and deep with a heavy Italian accent. "Signore Brusca would like the pleasure of your company after the game."

"Who's Signore Brusca?" Nikita asked with perfect feigned perplexity.

The man jerked back his head in the direction of the poker table, but his shrewd eyes never left her. "He is the man you want to say yes to."

Well, that was ominous.

She nodded once and forced a tight smile. "I'd be delighted."

At least the first hump of the mission was officially completed; Nikita had her in. A few more hands and she would be meeting her target face-to-face, and in a little more than 24 hours, Brusca would be dead and she would have her vacation to herself.

Nikita ordered herself another drink from a waiter and enjoyed the cocktail from a prime spot to surveil Brusca. Another hand was dealt, this time the victory going to the skinny American perched on the seat next to her target. The corner of Brusca's right eye twitched slightly as his neighbor scooped a handful of Brusca's former fortune into a messy pile.

"What are you doing?"

Nikita kept her eyes on the poker table as the dealer circulated the next hand, but she was keenly aware of the quiet fury that radiated beside her in a dark gray suit. "Ah, so the cavalry is here at last. I knew you couldn't resist the field, Michael. Worried your inner nerd would come out if you stayed in that suite any longer?"

"Can the witty banter," he barked, his body angling toward her. She could feel his eyes boring into the side of her head, but she didn't dare look, not with Brusca and his guard so close. "We both know why I'm here."

"True."

"You're jeopardizing the mission."

Nikita laughed, finally sparing one look at Michael's stern expression—it was like a sculptor had permanently chiseled seriousness into his face. She raised an eyebrow. "No, you're here because you're jealous."

Michael flipped his attention back to the poker table with a small grunt, his profile proud and stoic. "Jealous? Not likely."

"You're pissed because Amanda benched you." She took a sip of her drink through her stirrer as she watched him out of the corners of her eyes. "Why did she say you couldn't do field work, Michael? Is it because of me?"

He conveniently avoided the second question and narrowed his eyes on Brusca. "No, I'm here because you're flirting with the disaster. Alain is a distraction."

"Seriously? That's the best you can do?" Nikita issued a low growl, and Michael couldn't stop the twitch of a smile at the end of his lips. "That's such a load of crap. Alain has nothing to do with this mission. If you'd waited thirty seconds instead of cutting the mic, you might have noticed Brusca's guard already issued me an invitation to meet him after the game."

Michael couldn't hide his surprise. The woman worked fast. Of course, Brusca would be a fool to miss a sultry vision in Mediterranean blue. "After the game?" he repeated, sticking out his bottom lip slightly.

"Give your protégée some credit," Nikita reminded. She'd impressed him—that wasn't easy—and she didn't bother to hide her pride.

As she turned to him, Nikita caught a familiar form leaning awkwardly at the bar. She beamed. "You brought reinforcements. How'd you coax Birkhoff out of his lair? Did you tell him you'd take away his toys?"

She didn't wait for an answer as she strolled over to the bar. Her friend looked a bit green, and his eyebrows were perpetually pinched together in a mix of confusion and concern. "You look miserable, nerd," Nikita said without preamble. "Want me to buy you a drink?"

"I am miserable. I'm here in this monkey suit," he said, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt, "stuck amongst all these peons."

"Nice to know even without your machines, you still have your superiority complex."

Birkhoff scoffed, his gaze shifting incessantly around the droves of casino guests. "It's not my fault their feeble minds can't grasp the magnitude of my genius."

"I think you look very debonair," she added, pushing a tumbler of clear booze his way. "Stopped at Men's Warehouse on your way over, did you?"

He took a long draught of his drink and cringed as the strong liquor coursed down his throat. Birkhoff was used to Red Bull and Mountain Dew, not gin and tonic. He nearly gagged on the piney aftertaste. "Please. Percy wouldn't let me wear my normal clothes."

"That's because they make you look homeless," Michael amended as he sidled up alongside the duo. He kept some distance between them, his eyes on Brusca, but Nikita had no doubt he was more focused on the two of them.

She sighed, a flint of frustration igniting the irritation already under her skin. "Okay, so now that you've both flaunted your good looks, you can finish meddling. I'm a big girl, and I've got work to do."

"Couldn't agree with you more," Birkhoff added sourly as he shoved the rest of his drink far away from him. "Wasn't _my_ decision to come here."

Nikita bit her lower lip in triumph as Michael furrowed his brow. "You've been compromised," the brooding agent said.

"In what way?" she snapped.

Michael continued to ignore her angry stare and looked past her, unflinching. "You've brought too much attention to yourself flirting with that distraction."

"Alain?" she said aghast.

"I thought my ears were burning."

Nikita whirled around to find the handsome blond waiting with a pleasant smile on his face. She didn't know whether to laugh or shout out in surprise. "Is this your companion?" he asked, motioning toward Birkhoff.

Nikita could have drowned in the irony. She was standing close to Birkhoff so as to avoid being overheard and she had bought him a drink, so it made sense to just go with it. She smiled and gave a gentle nod of her head. "Actually, yes. Alain, this is my date, Seymour."

Two very different looks of shock graced her fellow Division agents: Seymour's mouth slackened at his loss for words; Michael raised his chin and looked down at Alain with hard eyes. The effect was not lost on the Frenchman. He glanced at Nikita and thumbed toward the rigid agent. "Who's the stern fellow beside him?"

Nikita pursed her lips slightly. "Oh, that's Seymour's bodyguard, Michael."

"Bodyguard?" Michael and Alain said in unison. Birkhoff puffed up at the bar and fumbled for the drink he'd forsaken minutes ago. It was the most important he'd felt in his life outside of a computer room, and it turned out he was not equipped to deal with the pressures of human interaction. He downed the whole glass, thankful for the distracting wince the liquor caused.

Nikita's lies flowed effortlessly as the waters of the Nile. A pleasant smile graced her face, the sugar with Michael's bitter pill. "Well, when you're a wunderkind software pioneer like Seymour, you have to take extreme measures against corporate espionage and sabotage."

"Even on vacation?" Alain asked, incredulous.

"Vacation's when we're most vulnerable. The whole point is to let your guard down, right?" She glanced back at Brusca, who apparently spared a moment to look for someone—probably her. She had to find a way to course-correct.

"I thought you said he was a bore," whispered Alain into her ear, his eyes training on Birkhoff for a moment until settling at last on the quietly fuming bodyguard.

Nikita shrugged. "You can be super rich and still be boring."

"Listen, Nikita," Alain began, but she cut him off with one perfectly manicured hand.

"Gentlemen, you knew what you got yourselves into when you met me."

"Some of us more than others," Michael muttered under his breath but just loud enough so Nikita could hear. She shot him a surreptitious wink.

"Seymour, it's been a delight, but I think our rendezvous has ended." She leaned over to him, put one hand on his wrist and placed a soft kiss on his scratchy cheek. He stood stone still, wishing for another glass of liquid escape. "I hope you find what you were looking for."

Then she turned to Michael and gave him a curt nod. She caught that look—that "don't you dare go there, Nikita" look—and promptly ignored it. "I know you'll take good care of your boss, noble guardian. Thanks for all the rides." His right eye twitched, but whether it was out of annoyance or amusement, she couldn't determine.

Nikita found Alain next, offering him only a curious eyebrow. "I'm not one to stay tied down for long, but if you're still interested, Alain, I can promise you Sunday."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in an adorable half-smile though his eyebrows pinched together in wonder. "How will I find you?"

She brushed a hand across his cheek. "I'll find you. Place du Casino, noon."

"And what if I see you before then?"

"You won't," she said with a small smile before walking away into folds of sequins, satin, and silk.

"She's like some sort of mysterious superhero," Alain mused, his eyes trailing after her wistfully.

Michael and Birkhoff couldn't help but do the same. "Something like that," Birkhoff added with a wry smile.

* * *

Only three men remained at the tournament table: Brusca, the fat man, and the pale-skinned American prodigy wearing sunglasses and a ball cap low over his worried brow. Brusca looked up again, this time his gaze finding Nikita with ease. He did not smile, but she could tell from the intensity of his eyes that he was pleased to find her in attendance once again.

The fat man saw Brusca's bet and raised it ten thousand. Nikita could see the young prodigy's leg tapping furiously under the table. He was left with only a small pile of chips and only one choice. "I'm all-in," he said tremulously.

Brusca tossed two chips into the pot to call, and the fat man issued a satisfied smile as they all revealed their hands. The phenom tossed his hat onto the table and rubbed both hands over his face; his run had come to an end. He shook hands with the solemn Brusca and the gloating fat man before leaving the table to a round of pats on the back and handshakes from the audience members.

And then there were two.

Nikita spent most of the last round either studying Brusca's minute movements and tells or searching the audience for other possible mafiosi. Aside from the ponytail guard, she could identify only one other of Brusca's men, a stout olive-skinned fellow with plump lips and earlobes that drooped like water droplets. If the mafia boss had only brought two men with him, her task might be easier than expected.

It came around to the final hand. The fat man and Brusca squared off at the table, Brusca's chip pile dangerously low. He eyed his cards intently, avoiding eye contact with his opponent at all costs. The room swelled with the eager silence of anticipation, the collective thumping of heartbeats setting a steady background rhythm. In the distance, the muted chirps of slot machines proposed life outside of 52 cards, but the guests surrounding the felt tables shunned the proposal. It was now Brusca's turn.

"All-in."

The fat man revealed his hand: a straight flush.

Brusca flipped his cards.

A middle-aged man next to Nikita whispered excitedly to his date, "He's got the Dead Man's Hand."

"What's that?"

"Two aces, two eights. He's done."

As the man and woman discussed the history of the hand's name, the audience issued a hearty round of applause for Brusca's effort, but it fell on deaf ears. The scowl on his face was impenetrable, and as he shook his opponent's hand, Nikita felt a chill tickle its way down her spine. The malice in his eyes was nothing short of penetrating.

Not two moments later, those eyes were fixed on her, only this time the look was less menacing but no less penetrating. She watched as he beckoned the ponytail guard over with two fingers and then nodded in her direction.

Ponytail approached her, his mouth set in a strict line. "Please join Signore Brusca in his private room."

"Right now?" she asked, honestly affronted by his demand.

"Yes, now." He gestured her ahead of him as he led her through the hall, still buzzing with the ends of other tournament games. They found an unadorned entrance to another room, this one marked with a small standing sign that read "Supers Privés".

After the opulence of La salle Europe, Nikita expected the private room to be just as decadent, if not more so. But surprisingly, it was simplistic in its decoration. A few expensive paintings hung on the walls and a small crystal chandelier scatted delicate light across her skin; however, there was no gold leaf, no soaring ceiling—just a half dozen plush chairs, a private mahogany bar and a chaise. And Brusca.

He sat in one of the chairs facing the entrance to the room. He had one ankle crossed on his knee, his perfectly polished shoe glinting in the soft light. In his hand he held a stiff drink, his lips still wet from his last sip. Or maybe he had licked them in anticipation of her arrival. Nikita's heart quickened.

"Ciao, amore. Please join me," he said, patting the chair beside him. She had no more options, so she dove in head first.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Nikita took the seat beside Brusca with her best Amanda-manufactured smile plastered on her face. She crossed her legs and angled herself toward him, purposefully letting the hem of her dress rise a bit too high. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, her hand tracing tantalizingly down her neck. Every tool of seduction Amanda had taught her sat ready in her arsenal, waiting to be utilized; it was just a question of how many she'd need to employ before she had the mafia boss begging for mercy.

Brusca ran a wide, flat thumb over his lips and wiped the corner of his mouth. "You know, my English is not so good."

"Then we'll use Italian," Nikita replied fluently.

A deep dimple blossomed on his tan cheek. "Is my accent that obvious?"

She tilted her head to Ponytail, who waited at the foot of the stair by the entrance alongside the man with the drooping earlobes. "Your friend called you signore."

"We have no surprises anymore, do we?" Brusca lamented. Then his eyes caught hers, a commanding intensity fixing her gaze. In that moment, she could easily feel how this man had come to hold such power in the Cosa Nostra. "Except for you."

Nikita was caught off-guard. She blinked, trying to hide the flash of worry—hoping it came off more as shock. "I surprised you?"

"In many ways, yes. You speak magnificent Italian for one."

Thank god. She was still in the clear. "My mom was Italian. We'd spend summers with my grandparents in Salerno. Mystery solved." Total nonsense, but it was a better answer than "I studied languages in assassin school." She just hoped he bought it—and didn't ask too many questions about it. "How else did surprise you?"

Brusca smiled again, this time a shallower dimple appearing on the other cheek. "Your beauty did. It cost me my tournament." Though his words held a little menace, his tone was much gentler, even somewhat playful.

Nikita covered her mouth politely and looked away, an attempt to be bashful. "My apologies," she responded a moment later, her eyes returning to him under an awning of thick lashes. "I was hoping you would win."

"We'll think of a way for you to make it up to me."

There was no mistaking that look in his eyes. Nikita raised an eyebrow. "We will?"

Brusca raised his empty glass, and Earlobes snatched it out of his hand to have the young bartender refill it.

"Would you care for a cocktail?" Brusca asked her.

Nikita shook her head. "No, thank you."

As he waited for his drink, the mafia boss studied her—not in the way where his eyes roamed up and down her figure as they had earlier, but more strategically, like he was trying to solve the riddle of Nikita. Good luck, she thought.

"It occurs to me that we have not been properly introduced," he said at length. "My name is Giacomo."

"Nikita," she replied with a close-lipped smile.

"The perfect name for a woman of your caliber. Where do you hail from, Nikita?" He put extra emphasis on her name.

"California."

"A long way from home alone." She definitely heard a suspicious undertone lacing his last words, but she forced herself to stay calm, even relaxing back into the soft arms of her chair.

Nikita peered at him out of the corner of her eye. "Not alone. I came with a date."

"Oh, and where is he?"

She shrugged one shoulder lazily. "Doesn't really matter anymore, does it? He doesn't own me."

Brusca laughed heartily, a deep pitch tainted with a sharp edge of meanness. "I guess not. But I should warn you, I'm not in the habit of letting things go once they fall into my lap." He said it with a broad smile revealing rows of blunt teeth yellowed by years of cigars.

He sagged back into his chair, the ice in his glass clinking—the only sound in the room apart from Nikita's steady breathing. Brusca surveyed her over the lip of the tumbler as it paused at the entrance to his mouth. "I'll tell you what, you accompany me to the tournament tomorrow, and I'll forgive your disruption."

"How do you know I'll accept?"

"For the same reason you're here now, Nikita."

Another veiled threat. Nikita gave a ghost of a smile and looked toward the bar. "I think I'll take that drink now."

"Excellent." Brusca order her a limoncello without asking what she wanted. Nikita received a small cordial glass with a shot of fluorescent yellow liquid. Her companion tilted his glass toward hers and said, "Let's toast to our future encounters."

She said nothing but raised her drink and clanked it against his. Watching Brusca as she tipped back her glass, she downed the fiery liquor and shook off the lemony sting burning her throat. He smiled at Nikita and took the cordial from her hand, returning it to the waiter.

When she said nothing, Brusca leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and placed a hand on her exposed thigh, his thumb rubbing roughly back and forth. Nikita stifled the flinch that shivered up her leg through her spine, and she even forced herself to tilt toward him. Their faces met in the space between their chairs, Brusca's hot, cognac-tainted breath crashing against her cheek."So, are you going to pick me up tomorrow?" Nikita asked finally.

Brusca shook his head. "We'll meet in the lobby of the casino at five."

"Not terribly romantic," she quipped.

"I don't have time for romance." His tone was firm as were his eyes.

Nikita straightened up and put a bit of distance between their faces. "You don't mince words, do you?"

"Never. I'm also never late, so you shouldn't be either. I hate to wait."

"You clearly know what you want out of life."

He nodded. "And I always get it."

"What should I tell my date?"

Running his tongue over his teeth, Brusca followed her question with a slow smile. "Tell him goodbye. You're with Giacomo now."

He gripped Nikita's knee tightly with one hand, the other grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward him. He lunged forward and crushed his lips against her, mashing them together so hard their teeth bumped painfully into each other's.

Nikita's first impulse was to cold-cock Brusca, but with any luck there would be time to do that tomorrow. She had been on Aphrodite missions before; she had survived worse than this. When the end came for Brusca, it would be cold, hard, and even more unexpected than this kiss.

With that knowledge as her only comfort, Nikita pressed into his mouth, trying not to gag as his tongue flicked against hers. She used her free hand to trace its way to his shoulder and then push back gently.

"Easy, tiger," she said. "We don't have anything to celebrate today, but there's a lot to look forward to tomorrow." Her double entendre wrapped around her like a blanket, fighting back the chill that had nestled in her marrow.

Brusca suckled his bottom lip, tasting Nikita for what she planned would be the last time. "Fair enough. You have a heart to break anyway." He stood up from his chair and smoothed out his shirt. He snapped his fingers, and Ponytail came over with a suit jacket, which he held out for his boss.

As Brusca slipped his arms through the sleeves, he focused on adjusting the cuffs as he added, "Remember, five o'clock in the lobby."

"I'll be there."

"I know you will." He loosened a button at his neckline and fidgeted with the collar. "Cesare will see you out. Until tomorrow, Nikita." Without looking back to her, Brusca left the room with Ponytail, leaving her with Earlobes. She turned to her escort who solemnly gestured her toward the exit.

Once they rejoined the heart of the casino, Cesare secured a velvet rope across the entrance to the private room before disappearing around one of the gilded columns, presumably to catch up with his boss. He, of course, did not say goodbye.

Back in the tournament hall, only two poker tables remained, and though much of the crowd had dispersed as most of the games concluded, a vast sea of titillated souls still clustered around those tables like barnacles on a rock.

No sign of Michael or Birkhoff, or even Alain. Perhaps they'd skulked back to their rooms, though she'd never heard confirmation of that from her earpiece. Either she'd pissed off Michael royally and he had cut her off, or the two of them were silently monitoring her without trying to piss her off anymore than their first invasion already had. Honestly, she hadn't much thought of them while in Brusca's lair. The mafia boss' presence was so powerful and controlling, she simply hadn't had time to wonder where her team was.

Nikita took her time casing the room along with several others in the casino. She needed to be familiar with all escape routes in case something went wrong with the elimination tomorrow. Not to mention, she wanted to appear just as she had presented herself to Brusca in case he had an unseen goon tailing her.

Of course, those were only background reasons to kill time here. A tumult of thoughts collided against her skull, giving her one massive headache. By allowing Brusca to handle her as he had, Nikita had to relinquish some of her precious control—something she'd never been very good at doing. Granted, everything would pay off tomorrow during the tournament, but she couldn't shake the revolting feeling that she was essentially a high-class call girl for Division. It wasn't the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last, but Brusca's assertive kiss burned against her skin like lye. Every inch of her skin needed to be scoured.

At last, Nikita left the casino and headed across the beautifully landscaped gardens to her hotel. She had a hard time mustering a smile for the doorman and couldn't bring herself to exchange pleasantries with the friendly elderly couple that rode with her in the elevator. Her focus squared solely on her shower and a very harsh scrub brush.

* * *

Michael heard the next door slam, rattling his suite's door in its frame. He waited a minute to see if it would be followed by a knock at his room, but it wasn't. He told Birkhoff he would be back, but by the time the computer geek could ask where he was going, Michael was already out the door.

He knocked, but Nikita didn't answer, so he used his spare key. He found the femme fatale throwing everything on her bed, including her dress. She stood there in her underwear, her body flushed with anger. Her gun was reflexively trained on him, and even though she recognized Michael, she hesitated lowering the weapon.

He cleared his throat and dug his hands deep into his pants pockets. "You were supposed to report to our room for a debriefing once you came back," he commented matter-of-factly.

"Can't it wait ten minutes, Michael." It most definitely was not a question. She tossed the gun on the bed with the rest of her disheveled mess.

His gaze followed the weapon before returning to her face. Her jaw was tight, her lips pressed together in a firm line, and her eyes were narrowed. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Nikita grabbed her robe and wrapped it around herself, cinching the cord forcefully at her waist. "I'll never get used to this."

"To what?"

"This." She gestured broadly around the room. "To these kinds of missions."

Michael tilted his head to the side. "You've completed eliminations before."

"That's not—" Nikita looked away, tugging her robe together at her neck and holding it there. "Brusca kissed me." Her eyes avoided his at all costs.

Despite the anger that roiled in the pit of his stomach, Michael's only outward reaction was a slow swallow. "Don't worry," he continued to soothe. "After tomorrow night, he won't bother you any longer."

But her gaze snapped back to his, and in its brown depths, he found red hot fire. "And how long until Percy hooks me up to be his little escort again? Like on Aphrodite."

"That wasn't my choice." His tone was revealing, a bit too concerned, he recognized.

Nikita released her death grip on her robe, and the fabric folded back lazily, exposing a wide plain of smooth skin. Michael did not fail to notice. "I know," she said wistfully. "It never is. But what if it were? What would you do with me?"

"I—" Michael caught himself. What he wanted to say and what he should say were two very different things. Realizing that she had trapped him yet again—either unintentionally or otherwise—he pressed his lips together. "I'll see you in ten for the debriefing, Nikita."

"Make it thirty," she amended as he turned and walked through the doorway.

His face glanced back at her over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in his challenging stare. "Twenty."

"Always a pleasure doing business with you," Nikita said, at last managing a genuine smile. He nodded, returning the gesture with a small grin of his own.

"And, Michael?" He froze, his hand waiting expectantly on the door handle. "Thanks."

He closed the door behind him, not sure why she was thanking him. In reality, he knew she would take as long as she damn well pleased in the shower, so it couldn't be for the ten extra minutes. Whatever he'd done—if anything really—as long as it made Nikita feel a little better, Michael was satisfied.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **So, confession time: I've thought the last two episodes after hiatus were… a bit lacking. Way too little of the entire cast and too focused on just Michael and Nikita. I think you all know I love great Mikita action as much as the next person, but maybe it feels a bit forced to me? Psh, it's probably just because I love UST much more than RST.

Also, where the heck has my Birkhoff been? He's barely had any screen time, damnit! As a result, this chapter appeared to fix both issues for me. Whether you agree with my assessment or not, I hope you have fun reading this chapter like I did writing it!

**Chapter Seven**

A pleasant breeze ruffled the napkin on Birkhoff's lap, and he fumbled with it, finally wedging it under his thigh. He chased his anxieties with a swig of water, the condensation on the glass wetting his fingers, so he rubbed them inelegantly on the lapel of his jacket.

Nikita laughed at the spectacle of a very bewildered Birkhoff. "Come on, nerd," she chided as she sipped her wine, "it's just dinner."

Birkhoff scowled, his eyes darting around the restaurant. "Everyone's looking at us."

"No one is looking at us. You just think they are." Nikita signaled for the waiter and ordered a whiskey sour for her friend. When he stared daggers back at her, she replied, "A little alcohol will force you to relax. Now take a deep breath and look up at the stars." She motioned upwards, where the roof covering had been peeled back, revealing a clear view of the speckled indigo heavens.

Birkhoff did neither; instead he grumbled something into his water glass and averted his eyes to his waiting menu.

Nikita released a soft sigh and shifted her focus to the surrounding French Riviera washed in the purple and red hues of dusk. Sailboats and yachts bobbed in the marina as gentle swells rolled across the glinting expanse of the sea. In the distance, the shadows of mountains climbed into a veil of plum-tinted clouds. Rising above the din of the restaurant, Nikita heard music waft up from the Place du Casino as violinists set up shop for the evening.

"I don't even know what half of this stuff is," growled a frustrated Birkhoff as he slapped a hand against the corner of his menu. "Sea bream? That doesn't even sound edible."

"Don't be so melodramatic. You've never heard of chicken?"

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he narrowed his eyes at her before returning to his options.

"Look, I'm sorry you got dragged into this," Nikita began in a low voice, "but you're doing just fine without your mouse and keyboard. You even look like a handsome grown-up. Amanda would be impressed." She reached out to lower his menu that he had cleverly used as a makeshift wall, and she found Birkhoff actually had allowed her a view of his vulnerable expression.

"I'm not—I'm not the James Bond," he began hesitatingly. "I'm the Q. Nobody would really buy you're with me unless I paid for you to be."

The corners of Nikita's eyes softened, and her hand traced down to rest her fingertips against his. "Any girl would wish to be in my seat right now." She held her friend's gaze and smiled reassuringly. "In fact," she added, moving her hand back to her wine, "I see one pretty young thing at the other side of the room has been keeping tabs on you since we came in."

Birkhoff turned around in his chair, but Nikita gave him a bit of direction so he wouldn't look so hopelessly obvious. "Nine o'clock, curly blonde hair, coral dress," she said over the lip of her glass, and his eyes followed. Sure enough, a petite woman with a feisty bob stared back brazenly.

Evidently satisfied with Nikita's discovery, Birkhoff tugged at his one sleeve and then took another long drink of his water. Nikita watched with satisfaction as he relaxed his posture and finally sagged back in his chair. "See, the field does have its perks," she added.

"Still think it would have been easier if you brought Michael here for this."

"Easier for you maybe," she said cryptically.

Birkhoff knitted his brow and rubbed his right ear impatiently. "Damn straight. Doesn't help that that overbearing _homo erectus_ made me wear the earpiece."

"I guess he doesn't trust you. Wonder why."

"Probably because I can monitor his every move electronically." Another wince. Nikita wondered what Michael had growled in Birkhoff's ear this time.

"Maybe. Anyway, you and I have already been seen together. I'm sure Brusca has a tail on me; he's too careful not to. So he'll see me doing exactly what I told Brusca I'd do: say goodbye to my date. Michael will just have to get over the fact that it's not him." Nikita emphasized the last sentence for their invisible third party.

She dropped her napkin and casually turned to pick it up, spying her mentor alone at a table in the corner by the door. He was watching her, his dark eyes glinting in the soft lantern light nearby. Dragging the dark blue cloth up the length of her legs, she watched his defiant eyes follow its sensuous trek diligently. Nikita relished the quiver of frustration at the corner of his lips, visible even halfway across the restaurant. With a flourish, she smoothed the napkin across her lap and offered him a quick parting wink before returning to her date.

Across the table, Birkhoff sighed dramatically as he rolled his eyes and rested his head against his hand. "Fine," he said abruptly. "Michael says, 'Keep your eyes to yourself, rookie.' " Mockery infused his voice.

Nikita let out one incredulous laugh. She grabbed Birkhoff's wrist, startling him, and brought herself closer to his ear. By all appearances, they were a smitten couple in an intimate conversation, but as her lips drew close to his ear, she heard him stutter and begin to protest with half-sounds and syllables, unable to find a single word. Out of the corner of her eye, Nikita caught sight of the small white bauble implanted in the hollow of his ear, and she whispered firmly into it, "Say that to my face. Coward."

Birkhoff, confused and exhilarated by the close contact with his beautiful teammate, reacted immediately, swatting her away with a flick of his wrist. "I'm not an intercom for your sick foreplay."

Nikita smiled sheepishly. Poor Birkhoff. He sounded like a kid caught in the middle of two bickering friends. "I'm sorry, Birkhoff. Let's forget about Michael."

He gave her a skeptical look from behind his black frames. "You're not the one with him barking orders in your head."

"Fair enough," she replied evenly.

At that moment, their waiter approached them, looking polished and pristine in his starched white shirt and immaculate black pants. His shoes were so shiny, Nikita probably could have used them as mirrors to spy around corners. Maybe she'd keep it in mind for future missions.

What finally drew her attention from the waiter's shoes was the sound of exquisite French pouring from her companion's mouth. Birkhoff executed their order with barely a hint that he was American, and Nikita couldn't halt her eyebrows' ascent. A surprised smile overtook her face. Moments like this reminded her that Seymour Birkhoff was so much more than a computer geek.

As the waiter vanished back to toward the kitchen, Birkhoff trained his perturbed gaze on her. "What?" he snapped.

Nikita shrugged one shoulder and stroked the stem of her wine glass. "Nice work, nerd."

"Please. I went through all the same courses you did." He said it petulantly, but she was too observant to miss the wisp of his proud grin as it flickered across his face.

She leaned back in her chair and re-crossed her legs. "I know you're not used to dating real humans, but it is customary to tell your date she looks nice."

Birkhoff pursed his lips and gave a casual nod. "You look hot, Nikki."

"Okay, not exactly what I meant." She watched Birkhoff wince and imagined Michael probably said something threatening into his ear.

"Let's keep things simple," she continued after a moment. "Once our meal gets here, we'll eat. Then I'll find some pretense to make a show of a goodbye. I'll head back upstairs while you wait down here and have another drink. Good news is once this charade is over, you won't have to worry about going back undercover."

"And maybe that hottie will buy a broken-hearted man a drink." Birkhoff sat up a little straighter and glanced again at the blonde who had been studying him earlier.

"That's the spirit, nerd. Just check your cockiness until after dinner."

"Nice wordplay, Nik," Birkhoff commented with a genuine smile at last. Even Michael couldn't suppress his grin from the other side of the restaurant.

"I learned from the master of double entendre."

At the corner of the terrace nearest the sea, Nikita spied a roughly hewn man with skin the color of maple syrup and an indistinguishable tattoo peeping out from under his short sleeve. He was watching her, but not with the same devotion or delight that the blonde had when watching Birkhoff.

"Heads up," she said casually as she blotted her lips with her napkin. "Think I've spotted my tail at my ten o'clock." Michael confirmed the sighting by clearing his throat.

Nikita reached across the table and wove her fingers through Birkhoff's. He tried not to look shocked at the contact, but when he couldn't cover it, he retreated behind the curtain of his hair. It was actually pretty endearing, she thought.

"This is simultaneously weird and hot," he added with two very raised eyebrows.

"You need to get out more."

Birkhoff hesitated, the wheels in his head evidently turning quickly. "What about Division's hands-off policy?"

"Relax, Birkhoff. Percy's long arm doesn't extend to Monte Carlo unless you let it. Sometimes you just have to get hands-on."

"Like you and Michael in Banff?"

The question was meant innocently, but for the two parties on the other side of it, it was laced with heavy implications and potent memories. Nikita's hand stiffened in Birkhoff's. "I might use another frame of reference," she added cautiously at last.

She wished she could have ventured a look at Michael, but it was best not to add kerosene to that fire. He was probably avoiding her anyway.

The perfect exit from that uncomfortable conversation appeared in the form of her dinner salad and his rack of lamb. The couple ate primarily in silence because quite frankly Birkhoff was miserable at small talk. In the end, their shared discomfort added to the image of the dysfunctional, boring couple Nikita had promoted to Brusca and Alain.

As the waiter cleared their plates, the conclusion of their plan loomed on the horizon like the shimmering crescent of the Mediterranean moon. Before the check was even placed on the table, Nikita made her confession.

"I'm sorry, Seymour, but I just can't do this anymore." She slid both hands across the table cloth and grasped his clammy hands. She captured his eyes, fixating their slate grey depths on her alone.

"When we first met, you were so wild, so daring." She stroked his skin with her thumbs, and he couldn't resist breaking eye contact to wonder at her boldness. "You broke the law and laughed in the face of authority. And now you are the authority. I've got to be true to myself. If you ever find yourself itching for some adventure, you know my number."

"You're leaving me? In Monte Carlo?" he deadpanned.

Good, Nikita thought. So Birkhoff wasn't totally hopeless in field work. "We'll always have Paris."

She stood up and approached his rigid form. Placing his cheeks in both hands, Nikita drew her face down to his and planted a chaste but lingering kiss on Birkhoff's lips. Her eyes were closed; his were wide open.

When she pulled back, she gingerly straightened the glasses on his face and left him, mouth agape, watching after her as she strolled out of the restaurant.

As Nikita breezed past Michael, she dragged her thumb across her lips to slowly erase her smile. Michael's mouth was wide open too.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I know, I know, has it really been three years since I updated this story? Crazy! Perhaps it's even crazier that I came back to finish it. Honestly, after season one of _Nikita_, the show and I had a falling out. For me it lost a lot of its tension and magic, and I just sort of fell out of love with the characters for a time.

And then a couple of weeks ago, I got to thinking about how much I loved season one, and I thought I might rewatch it. Passion reignited! I felt I had to, at the very least, finish this story because, truthfully, it never really left my system.

One note of caution: Since I gave up on the show after season one, there may be parts of this story that are forever out of canon. I'd place the timeline of this (now mildly AU story) after 1x16—but of course before the canon I developed in Lies, More Lies, and Assassins.

Always, thanks for reading! Especially those of you who never gave up on the story even three years after I stopped writing in it (you were totally right)!

**Chapter Eight**

Nuzzling her face into pillow, Nikita let out a soft sigh. Sunlight caressed her cheeks and warmed her eyelids. For a moment, she could have been anywhere, waking up to the same beautiful day—that is until her hand snaked out of the covers, caressing the superb 300-thread count sheets. In the distance, a buoy dinged as it bobbed on the waves that lapped against the docks. The smell of croissants and citrus warming in the climbing sun wafted through the balcony door she had left ajar last night.

Nikita stretched like a lazy cat and sat up with a grin fixed on her face. Her gaze immediately trained on the clear blue sky outside her windows, and she watched a keen-eyed gull wheel over some potential meal below.

Tonight would be the night she killed Giacomo Brusca.

Eventually, Nikita peeled back her sheet and swung her naked legs over the edge of the bed. She grabbed a robe and draped it loosely over her form before heading out to the balcony. It was a small cement structure that scraped at the unprotected soles of her feet, just large enough to accommodate two people. No furniture graced the space despite the magnificent view it afforded of the Riviera, the sea, and the casino. Nikita inhaled the fresh air, imprinting this abnormally peaceful moment in her memory forever. It was a moment all her own, and she cherished it.

She glanced to her right, surprised to find Michael hunched over with his elbows propped on the wrought iron railing and his hands clasping a mug. He was naked except for a pair of black boxer briefs. The morning sun did him quite a service, highlighting his lean sinew and normally dark facial features. He was handsome—no getting around that.

At last, Michael acknowledged her with a slow nod. He raised his mug and tipped it cordially in her direction.

"Good morning, neighbor," she said, mimicking his casual stance. "Can I borrow a cup of sugar?"

Michael appraised her, his eyes noting the golden sheen of her skin and the copious amounts of bare flesh. He stuck out his bottom lip slightly and tilted his head to the right. "Maybe."

Nikita straightened up and affected an air of offense. "Maybe? That's your hotshot response? The morning's dulled your wits, Michael."

"If a man wants to entice a woman, he plays it cool and casual. Now she's got to come to him. "

"That so?" she challenged, and he nodded. Nikita narrowed her eyes. "I don't think you'd be so cocky if I were over there."

"You prove my point."

She scowled. "Damn. I hate doing that."

Michael took a swig of coffee and refocused his gaze on the billowing sails of a boat departing for a day at sea. He licked his lips, catching the lingering droplets of bitter liquid, and said, "That was nice—what you did for Birkhoff last night."

Nikita followed his line of sight. "Felt like I had to. He's clueless about anything that moves without the help of a mouse. Plus, God forbid I would ever admit this in front of him, but in spite of myself, I actually like the nerd. He is, after all, one of us."

"You mean Division?"

"Family." The word tossed about on swell of a playful breeze and bandied about between the two of them. Nikita's smile instantly lightened the mood. "You know, like the obnoxious step-brother you keep trying to pawn off on other families."

Michael quirked the corner of his lip up with a hint of chagrin. "Yeah, his leg kept creeping over mine last night. I'm disturbed just enough to never sleep a full night again."

"Yikes. Maybe I should put in a request with Percy to get you a nightlight."

"Thoughtful of you," he added as he took one more long drink.

Their companionable moment, however, was spoiled, not by the belligerent belch of a yacht horn but by their own traveling companion. "Morning, peasants," Birkhoff crowed as he joined Michael on the balcony. The computer whiz stretched his arms high over his head in a show of early morning triumph.

"This is your fault," Michael said pointedly to Nikita.

"Looks like someone's got more RAM in his CPU," she prodded.

Birkhoff's face was steadfast, even challenging. "I'm willing to overlook your technological ineptitude this morning, that's how generous I'm feeling."

Nikita raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips lightly. "I trust things went well with Blondie last night."

"Her name is Angelique, and turns out she's Monégasque, lucky me. She felt terrible about the heartbreak some heartless floozy visited upon me—"

"Easy, tiger," she warned.

Birkhoff continued unabated. "She asked me out for Sunday brunch." He may as well have been a peacock for all the preening and parading he was doing across the sun-splashed balcony.

"You don't seem the brunch type, Birkhoff," Michael interrupted. "You're more Pop Tarts and Mountain Dew for breakfast at 3 p.m."

Birkhoff rolled his eyes. "Yuck it up, Neanderthal. Seems to me that you're the only person here without Sunday plans."

Michael stepped back from the banister and pulled himself up taller, the bright rays of light cascading down his abdomen. It was hard for the other two Division agents not to straighten up in the shadow of such an imposing presence.

"That's probably because I'm the only one here focusing on today's plans and not tomorrow's," Michael volleyed back. "Taking out a target's a little more important than getting lucky."

"Nothing's more important than getting lucky," Birkhoff added cavalierly.

Michael rolled his eyes but pressed on. "As your team leader, I'm asking you to focus on Brusca so we don't all become part of the mess Roan has to clean up."

"Fine," Birkhoff conceded as he headed back in, "but as soon as his heart stops, I'm turning the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the rest of this trip."

The two remaining agents exchanged a tenuous silence before Nikita offered a conciliatory smile. "So I guess I'll be over in five for that cup of sugar."

"Works every time," he reminded as he waved goodbye with his mug.

* * *

By early afternoon, the mission had been thoroughly mapped out. Ironically, Brusca had already laid out the roadmap to his death: dinner in the casino at five o'clock, drinks, and finally, the poker tournament. After some discussion among the three agents, they decided to nix administering the GChC at dinner. Though drinks would be readily accessible, there would be far too many sight-lines for someone to easily catch Nikita in the act.

Provided she could stomach a dinner with the mafioso, Nikita's best chance would likely come during the poker tournament. Once she had obtained the target's room key, she would make a casual exchange with Michael in the crowd so that he could search Brusca's room for the intel Percy had requested. Fellow spectators would be engrossed in the action, Brusca and his hired goons included, and the throngs would be too tightly packed see a hand tip a vial into another person's drink. And, of course, the more people, the easier it would be to disappear into the masses. It was about as straight forward as a Division op could go. With Lady Luck on her side, what could go wrong?

"Hard to believe we're all in agreement about something," Nikita mused at the end of their brainstorming session.

"Had to happen at some point," Birkhoff said before happily diving headfirst into his machines.

Michael stretched his stiff knees as he paced across the hotel room. "As long as you can make it through dinner without killing Brusca, by ten o'clock we should be packing our things."

Birkhoff swiveled around immediately to level his stern gaze at Michael. "Hold your horses there, Speed Racer. Nikki and I have dates on Sunday, remember?"

"With the rate the Division is hemorraghing money," Michael began, "we probably—"

The hacker scoffed. "What a crock. Don't mess with my vacation just because you don't want Nikki frenching a Frenchman."

Michael crossed his arms and looked away. "I don't care what Nikita does in her free time, with or without Allen, as long as it doesn't interfere with her work."

"It's _Alain_," she interjected with a smooth French inflection.

He rolled his eyes. "Stop saying his name with that extra accent. It's annoying."

"Michael, that's how you say his name," she deadpanned. He narrowed his eyes but said nothing further, though she was pretty sure she heard him mumble "Allen" under his breath.

With a snort, Birkhoff returned to the monitors, his hackles still raised. "Whatever Nikki hang-ups you have, stow 'em for a day. You even think about cancelling my Sunday, and I'll flag your passport as a terrorist so fast, by the end of the day, you'll be sipping soup out of a bowl in the Château d'If."

"I'm surprised you're literate enough to make that reference, Birkhoff," the team leader retorted.

"Whatever. You do remember that I'm a genius, right?" he griped, his fingers once again pounding fervently across the keyboard.

"I'll let you two studs duke it out. Got to get ready for the big show," Nikita said on her way out the door. She offered a curt wave and then made her way back to her room.

As soon as her door closed behind her, she was instantly, reluctantly, transported back to Amanda's lair. Instead of opulent furniture and airy windows, she was surrounded by a stark white studio flooded with unforgiving fluorescence. Her toolbox was in front of her, but rather than overflowing with bullets and garrotes, it was stuffed with eye shadow and lingerie. Nikita wasn't scared or shocked by the mental teleportation but found it oddly reassuring, like she was right where she was supposed to be—and she knew just what she had to do.

For the first time since becoming an active Division agent, her body switched naturally into auto-pilot. She did not have to give herself pep talks or reinforce her own training. The final feather in Division's cap, Nikita was at last transforming into the instinctively ruthless killer Percy had molded her to be. Though she controlled her every action, each motion felt like it was being orchestrated through someone else's hands. She did not feel herself shower, style her hair, or paint her face. She wasn't making these things happen, but they happened to her. There was no pleasure in any of it, not the touch of the comb raking through her damp tresses nor the caress of her lotioned palms working cocoa butter into her skin.

As she smudged the last of her eyeliner, Nikita noticed the clock hands had rounded three and continued their ceaseless march onward to Brusca's death knell. She rose from her bed, Division's version of an avenging angel, and stole a brief glance outside.

Dozens of couples meandered arm-in-arm through Place du Casino's carefully manicured gardens. A line of Bentleys, Aston Martins, and Ferraris puttered obediently in anticipation of the valets. Ironic how these great men and women pictured themselves as lords of their world, and yet, from Nikita's balcony, they looked like nothing more than orderly little drones.

She was dehumanizing them. The realization flickered across her mind. They were insects now, not people, and insects were much, much easier to kill. Division's brainwashing had been more effective than she thought. At some point, the seeds of their lessons, no matter how repellant they had seemed on the surface, had germinated in the fertile, untilled soil of her subconscious. Their instructions unfurled like an invasive ivy, clinging tenaciously to that brick wall she'd erected during her years of angst and abuse. The wall was still there—not even Amanda had been able to erode it—so Division had done what they did best: they used it to their advantage.

Nikita supposed if enough time passed, this death ritual would all become utterly ordinary, a matter of course, like breathing. Eventually, she wouldn't even be aware of it anymore, like Roan, she imagined. East, sleep, kill. She supposed this was what is was like to lose your soul, like a seepage of air through a pinhole in a balloon—slowly and then all at once empty. Perhaps her existential crisis was all a moot point anyway. Could a contract killer even be a good person?

Another flash in her mind, and with a soft smile, Nikita realized all hope wasn't lost. There was always Michael. No matter what Division had ordered him to do, he could never be soulless. He was the realest thing in her world of artifice. Michael was the exception to every rule.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Nikita squared off against her final foe. Amanda had selected two dresses for her to choose between for the take down: an elegant blood red gown and an enticing bright green cocktail dress. She laid them out on the bed, unable to shake the notion that her decision was somehow a test—with Division, there was always another test. Her hand hovered over the green number, fingers tracing the silhouette and stopping to roll the hemline between them. She longed to wear it, both for practical and personal reasons. Easier to make a getaway in a shorter dress, sure, and it would certainly garner more unbridled lust from her target. Or was it targets?

She stared at the wall that separated her room from Michael's, hard enough until she imagined she could see him through it. Green seemed to have become a favorite color of his, too. She felt her breath quickening in response to the memory of his weight pressing her into their bed in Banff. Nikita would be a fool to deny their physical attraction, but an even bigger fool to ignore the consequences of caving in to it.

In the end, she decided on the red dress. She would be spilling blood tonight anyway, and it least it wouldn't stain as easily.

* * *

When Nikita reentered the boys' room, she found Michael on his phone on the balcony. Though she wasn't sure, she assumed it was someone from Division because, really, who else were they really allowed to talk to. She carefully studied his face as he listened to the other party on the line.

Using her tradecraft as a foundation and building upon her general Michael expertise, she could tell the conversation had taken a sharp turn into unexpected territory. Judging from his furrowed brow and slightly parted lips, the other person had unsettled his normally controlled demeanor. His jaw, however, was set in steely defiance—that much hadn't changed.

"Who is he talking to?" she asked Birkhoff.

The techie didn't bother to turn around from his monitor. "Don't know, don't care."

"Do you think it's about—"

"Don't know, don't care."

Nikita sighed in frustration. "What if—"

"Do not know. Do not care," he reiterated slowly, punctuated by one dramatic tap on the keyboard.

"Remind me to torture you later," she quipped.

She watched through the window as the conversation—and Michael's nonchalance—continued to unravel. His eyes caught hers and held them unwaveringly. Though she was no lip reader, Nikita could make out his last words: "I've got it under control. You have nothing to worry about." With that, he hung up.

Michael had barely stepped foot into the room before she asked, "Who was that?"

"Percy." He did not look at her, and she did not believe him.

"Interesting. What did he want?"

He continued to avoid her, busying himself with his sleeve cuffs. "Just checking in. Wanted to know how close we were to a resolution."

"I'm sure you told him we have it under control."

His eyes snapped up, training steadily on her every move. There was the slightest hint of worry—and perhaps even a flash of fury—before he blinked and dashed it away. When he spoke again, his tone was so altered she hardly recognized him. "Almost ready?"

Despite the tumult in her mind, Nikita shifted her attention to Birkhoff—she had the rest of her life to torture Michael. "Okay, nerd, let's get this show on the road. Work your technological magic."

As Birkhoff spun around in his chair, he whistled softly as he evaluated her. "Now that's a femme fatale." After a moment, his gaze became less shameless and more studious. "Not a lot of places to hide the goods when all the other goods are on display." Michael cleared his throat in warning, but Birkhoff ignored him and instead ransacked a duffel bag for supplies.

With a gown that hugged her like a second skin, Nikita didn't have a lot of options for weapon concealment, so she'd had to get a creative. She had swept her hair up into a loosely coiffed bun, a few wavy tendrils cascading down along her cheekbones and, for an extra touch, a jeweled hair pin just sharp enough to gouge an eye if need be. With her hair up, a traditional earpiece was obviously out, but Birkhoff managed an elegant solution in spite of the setbacks.

"I've been dying to use this puppy," he said as he extracted a palm-sized black velvet box from his bag and opened it like an oyster to reveal the treasure inside. "Designed the micro-technology myself. Completely undetectable under standard scrutiny."

Inside the box on a bed of white silk, an enormous teardrop diamond glinted mischievously in the weak lamplight. Nikita ran her hand along its silhouette, entranced by its sparkling depths. "Wow, nerd, it's beautiful. Maybe you should be designing for Cartier."

"I could if they had a department for black ops accessorizing. Now, don't get too excited," Birkhoff said as he lofted the necklace high, "since it's got to hang around your neck, the receiver I've embedded only works one way. We'll be able to hear you—"

"But I can't hear you two," Nikita finished.

Michael had circled around behind her so that he could put on the necklace for her. "Should be a non-issue if you actually stick to the plan this time," he grumbled.

"Have I ever let you down, Michael?" she retorted.

"There's a first time for everything." She rolled her eyes and smoothed out the lines of her gown, feeling just the tiniest bit uneasy under the appraising stares of her comrades.

"You really do look great, Nikki," Birkhoff offered, even managing the tiniest of smarmy smiles. "Of course, it's my necklace that completes the outfit."

Nikita nodded patronizingly. "Oh, yes, of course it is. What would I do without you, nerd?"

"At least someone finally recognizes me," Birkhoff said with a pointed look to Michael.

"What do you think, Michael?" she asked with the slightest hint of trepidation.

He didn't look up from his watch as he answered, "I think it's about time." He knew that wasn't what she had meant—Michael was sensitive enough to catch the insecurity in her tone—but he ignored her, didn't even bother to look at her.

"Knock 'em dead, kid," Birkhoff said over his shoulder, "pun intended."

But Birkhoff may as well have not even been in the room. For a moment, Nikita stood rigid with rage. She couldn't even find the words to respond. First, it was Michael's blatant lie and now his casual dismissal of her. It was the first time she could remember him making her feel like a pawn. Sure, the rest of Division treated her that way, treated her as a means to an end, as a service rendered instead of a human being—but never Michael. He cared too much, or so she thought.

"Can I speak to you?" Nikita said without preamble.

Before she even let him answer, she had stormed through their hotel door, and Michael had no choice but to follow.

Inside her room, he found Nikita waiting for him, a statuesque pillar with her arms crossed firmly over her chest. He rolled his eyes as soon as he walked in, knowing it was a trap but not knowing what kind. "What?" he said in exasperation.

"You know what, Michael."

"Is this because I didn't fall all over you tonight? Do you really need me to tell you every time you look nice?" She looked at him in total astonishment. Perhaps that was what had set her over the edge, but Nikita had never dreamed of confronting him about it. Still, it confirmed once and for all that he was ignoring her; now she wanted to know why.

Squelching down her rising anger, she did her best to maintain a cool but firm tone. "Who were you really talking to earlier?"

He blinked. "That doesn't concern you."

"If it concerns you, then it concerns me."

Michael took two steps closer, and she felt each one as though he were stepping on her. "See, that's where you're wrong. I am your direct superior, the head of all agent operations, and I don't have to answer you. In fact, it's your job to follow my instructions without asking questions."

Nikita looked disgusted. "So you're Percy now? Don't think, just kill like a good little soldier."

"You're supposed to respect authority."

"I don't respect Percy, Michael. I respect you. Or at least I did." She let her words hang in the thick air of her room as she turned her back to him, letting the heat of her anger radiate out of every pore.

Michael shook his head. "Don't try and guilt me, Nikita. You're not my mother."

She whirled back around and closed the gap between them until there was barely six inches of space between their faces—their mouths. "Yeah, I sort of figured that out from the way you kissed me."

Michael ground his teeth and let out an exaggerated sigh. "What I did on that dance floor was a show. I—"

Her eyes were hard, and one look from them was all it took to stop him mid-sentence. "I'm not talking about that kiss," she said in a low voice, "I'm talking about everything that followed. You remember, don't you, Michael? In our hotel room, on the bed, away from prying Division eyes."

Michael would know that taunting purr anywhere. Before him stood the devil-may-care spitfire he had encountered on her first day in Division. Within a year and a half's time, Nikita had evolved and matured in both beauty and power, but the hell cat was still in there, that wondrous siren who could drive men willingly—gratefully—to their dooms.

His only defense against her unceasing pull was his misplaced anger. "Nikita, you've been over this, I've been over this, Amanda's been over it with us. It didn't mean anything. And even if it had, what difference would it make? We are who we are, we do what we do, and that's the end of it."

Michael's words branded her, so hot and painful that tears threatened to spill over. At least Division had been merciful in one respect: it had instructed her on how to hide her true feelings. She just resented having to use it on someone she had always trusted with the realest version of herself.

"So our lives stop with the missions?"

"At least they won't end all together. Come on, Nikita, you've been with Division long enough. By now you know what happens to agents who cross lines." He let the implications hang in the air. "Why does it matter what I think anyway?" he continued.

"Because you're the only person I care about anymore."

He turned his back to her, his head hung low. "Why do you make it so damn hard?" he said in a near whisper.

"What, Michael? What's so hard?"

He paused long enough to face her, his eyes searching hers for an unspoken answer. "To be near you."

It felt like an invitation, and she leaned forward tentatively. Her lips hovered right before his, her breath colliding with his in a storm of indiscretion. All she needed was a push, any little give that could send her crashing into him. She wanted, _needed_, him to finish things, or start things—or wherever they were in their rollercoaster of a relationship—but Michael didn't move. His eyes stared down at her under heavy lids, focusing on her lips that were painted for another man. He felt the rawness of her emotion, and it was dangerous and seductive and everything he desperately wanted.

Before him was a version of the temptress who would bring about Giacomo Brusca's ruin, but Michael knew this version was the authentic Nikita, her true self rent wide for him to explore. He felt her vulnerability as keenly as an electric current thrumming through the air. It made his mouth dry and the hairs on his arm stand on edge.

All he had to do was lean forward.

Michael placed his hands on her upper arms, his fingers curling tightly around her triceps. His warmth was startling, and his touch filled her with hunger—there was no other way to describe it. She was ravenous for his touch, his approval, his surrender. He squeezed tighter, but Nikita didn't mind the pressure. Their relationship had always straddled the border between passion and pain. It was comfortable. It was them. She waited for him to fall into her as he had in Canada, only this time relinquishing all control. Seconds ticked by, as long and agonizing as eons.

And then slowly he eased her away from him.

They were both stunned into silence. Michael released her, his handprints cooling unmercifully on her bare skin, and she rubbed her arms in an effort to combat the icy chill in her veins. She turned away, but she knew he could see her embarrassment tattooed all over her.

Michael took a few steps toward the door, hoping to give her some much-needed space. Once he finally felt brave enough, he managed to choke out a few words. "After we complete this op, I'm putting in a request to do separate missions for a while, work with the new recruits more closely. I just thought you should know first."

Nikita couldn't find her voice to respond. It didn't matter anyway. Even if she had, she would only make more of a fool of herself. They were two wounded animals lashing out in their pain, and if they didn't take time to heal, they would surely kill each other or get each other killed.

Michael opened the door, but turned around to offer her one last thought before she had her date with Fate. "But for the record, if I told you you looked beautiful every time you do, it'd be the only thing we'd talk about."

* * *

Michael's hotel room was noticeably silent. The hum of Birkhoff's machines still vibrated throughout the space, but conspicuously absent was the clack-clack of his fingers across the keys. He glanced across the room and found his roommate sitting stock still, his back ramrod straight. Slowly, Birkhoff twisted around, his mouth slightly agape. Michael's gaze flicked upward to the monitor behind the techie, where he noticed the audio software for Nikita's necklace was still up and running. Realization broke over him like dawn's first light.

Michael raised one hand threateningly toward Birkhoff, but he kept his voice disturbingly even. "If you breathe one word of this, your dentist will be fishing bullets from your teeth."

Good sense cast thoroughly aside, Birkhoff couldn't help himself. "Okay, so you may not want to hear this—"

"Don't."

"—but you handled that like a boss."

Then Birkhoff's world went briefly black.


End file.
